The moonlit rows of roses guard
my garden's grace. They taste so good
to Goldberg's goat. It coughs and burps
and rams my door. Gobbles my reds,
repays in dung. The scent of stool
should guard my plot. I shake my head,
I sigh, sit down. But soon it's she
who turns and eats, my full goatee.
my garden's grace. They taste so good
to Goldberg's goat. It coughs and burps
and rams my door. Gobbles my reds,
repays in dung. The scent of stool
should guard my plot. I shake my head,
I sigh, sit down. But soon it's she
who turns and eats, my full goatee.
